


A Positive Experience

by Val Mora (valmora)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Catholic/Protestant relationship, First Time, M/M, waiting until marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:50:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France insinuates lewd things about Italy's virginity.  Germany is sufficiently annoyed by this that he decides (with some help from Belgium) that it's time to pursue Italy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Positive Experience

**Author's Note:**

> In French, the word for the nation of Germany (l’Allemagne) is feminine, so of course France makes his grammar agree accordingly. _Deutschland_ in German is not feminine, but fortunately for everyone involved, making the agreement in French doesn’t change the pronunciation.

“And after, he was quite impolite – as though I ‘ave no interest in love, only in the act,” France fumes, to a Japan who looks mildly horrified and is therefore quite horrified. This is likely attributable to the detailed description of France’s recent sexual and romantic misadventures with England.

“I see,” Japan says woodenly.

“Rude,” France reiterates. “I will have you know that I am a Nation of scientific advances in medicine.”

“Yet you don’t pasteurize your milk,” Norway points out from across the table. He is cleaning his nails with a boning knife.

“It ruins the _flavor_.”

Japan begins, “If you will – ”

“Germany, Germany – ” Italy interrupts him, from halfway down the table. “What was France talking about? I don’t understand..”

France perks up, visibly. Japan looks like he’s in pain. Norway raises an eyebrow two millimeters.

“Italy, don’t ask those kinds of questions!” Germany mutters at him. It is too late.

“Am I to understand,” France purrs, “that my dear Italy has not yet enjoyed the pleasures of his bed?”

Italy frowns. “But I love sleeping.”

“He means sex,” Norway translates. Japan looks as though he wishes he could be anywhere else. Germany puts his head in his hands.

“Oh,” Italy says, “No, I’ve never done that! It’s only allowed if you’re married!”

“Ah, but we are not meant to marry, only to ally,” France murmurs, leaning over the table. “Imagine the loneliness of never knowing another…”

“If I find someone and we’re ready to be married, I’ll do it then,” Italy chirps. France winces. Norway looks faintly nauseated. Germany’s head is still in his hands.

 

 

 

After the meeting is adjourned for the day, France leans on the back of Germany’s chair, where Germany is still sitting, gathering up his notes.

“’e is not yours?” he asks.

“I don’t understand.” Germany continues to fold up sheets of paper to put into folders.

“I mean that you have not yet shown him the ways of love.”

“…that’s disgusting.”

“I think he would be skilled.”

“If you are so intent on seeing him violated, find another. I refuse.”

France’s fingers spider-walk over the back of Germany’s neck. “You are a warrior at heart, so I forgive you. Sex is not always violent. It can be made with love, if both are willing, and in love.”

“And he’s not,” Germany snaps.

France laughs, a slow roll of amusement. “And you are.”

Germany’s ears turn pink, and his shoulders hunch minutely. “Go away.”

“Do you not wonder,” France asks, leaning to breathe in his ear, “what it would feel like to kiss his mouth and to hold him as a lover instead of as a dead weight? You do not wonder at how deeply he would blush to see you naked, and how much more red he would become in seeing your – ”

Germany stands, abruptly; his shoulder slams into France’s jaw, almost by accident. “Your suggestion has been noted,” he says stiffly, and marches away. France touches his own jaw and watches Germany go.

“Je t’ai frappée,” he murmurs to himself, and smiles.

 

 

 

Germany refuses to let this bother him. Italy’s virtue, or lack thereof, is none of his business.

And yet –

And yet France, like Italy, like Germany himself, is a member of the European Union. He cannot stand aside and let France sexually harass Italy. Nor does he want to. The thought of France betraying Italy’s trust makes him want to – to do more than impose sanctions.

He unclenches his hands and forces himself to lay them flat on the desk, above the transcription of some Bundestag committee minutes that he has been. Well. Not reading, in all honesty.

He contemplates asking his brother, but then realizes how desperate he must be to even let the thought pass through his brain. Belgium? Belgium might know.

 

 

 

It’s eleven in the morning on a Saturday, but Belgium opens the door anyway – she raises an eyebrow at him and says, “That tie does terrible things to your eyes. Leave green to a country that has it on her flag.” But she steps aside and lets him in.

“I just opened a jar of Nutella, if you like,” she says as she escorts him to her kitchen. “I always seem to eat too much, you’ll be saving me the calories.”

“Um,” he says. “I ate breakfast.”

“It was probably pork-based, cured in salt, and vaguely phallic,” she retorts. “Now eat.”

He doesn’t tell her that she’s wrong, that Italy came waltzing into his house with fresh-baked bread and fruit and coffee.  
“I, um,” he says, “I need help.”

She doesn’t look up from spreading Nutella over a slice of toast. “You only ever visit me when you do, whether it takes you getting your ass kicked to admit it or not. Oh, and Christmas.”

He crumbles a torn-off morsel of toast, rolling it between his index finger and thumb as he stares at the table. “I am sorry,” he says. “There is nothing I can say – or give – or do – that can prove that. But I am, and your kindness shames me, that the evil that –”

“Shut up,” she says, not unkindly. “You’re redirecting it, and you’re working to make amends, and that’s all I want.” She looks briefly at the ceiling. “Now, your darlingest best question for me.”

“It’s France.”

She makes a face that might very likely mean _Oh, him_. “Well?”

“Italy recently said something about his own…virtue. And France...”

“You mean Italy confessed to waiting for marriage before having sex, and he said it in front of France, who has seized with great joy upon the possibility of having the opportunity to de-virginize someone.”

Germany slumps. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Top secret, for my eyes only.” She has Nutella on her nose. “So what this means,” she continues, “is that you, being you, are made uncomfortable by this, and want me to help you exorcise whatever demons are bothering you by giving you a way to rescue Italy from France’s clutches.”

He crumbles some more toast instead of replying and wonders if Prussia coached her.

“I could,” she continues, “give you the good advice, which is to remind France of his responsibilities as a member of the European Union. I could give you the Hungarian advice, which would be to feed Italy pasta and take sexual advantage of him while he’s distracted. Or I could give you the advice that you should probably hear, which is that Italy is perfectly capable of protecting his own virtue if he wants to keep it, and that if you have designs on his virginity you can date him yourself.”

Germany recoils, stung. “I would never,” he starts, and she puts an elbow up on the table, puts her chin in her palm.

“Can I guess how that sentence will end? It ends with _take advantage of him like that_ , because you are adorable and terrifically loyal when you have a proper government.” She holds up a hand to stave off his apologies. “And that’s exactly what I’m getting at. He likes food. Go with him and pay for it, and then see where it goes from there.”

After that she pretty much chases him out of her house, though not before forcing more Nutella into him. On his way out she shouts at him, “And if I hear of self-help books even being discussed in the same sentence as your name I’m not going to rescue you!”

 

 

 

Italy burbles happily in random noises, clinging to Germany’s arm as they walk down the street from the restaurant.

“Thank you for paying,” Italy says finally, rubbing the side of his head against Germany’s shoulder. “It was really nice and you didn’t need to but I’m glad. And we ate together! We don’t do that enough anymore.”

“No,” Germany says. He doesn’t know what to do. The pornography he watches never shows the participants eating leisurely dinners together and taking a stroll through the streets of Milan. Sometimes there’s pizza, but not very often.

“Come back to my flat and let’s watch a movie,” Italy says, and starts dragging him.

Germany follows along, though he does have enough sense to ask, “What movie?”

“I don’t know!” Italy chirps. “Let’s see what’s there!”

 

 

 

They’re halfway through _Il Ciclone_ when Italy leans a little harder against Germany’s side and murmurs, “I wish we could do this more.”

“Do what?”

“Spend time together. It’s always meetings and meetings and work, and I don’t mind because I love my people, but I miss…” he strokes the back of Germany’s hand with one finger. “I miss being allies. Not the war part, but the feeling of…having an ally.”

“You’re part of the European Union,” Germany says. “That’s a lot of allies.”

Italy presses his face against Germany’s bicep. “It’s all the same kind of alliance, though,” he says, and then whispers, “I can’t make special agreements with you anymore, and I miss that.”

Germany needs a how-to guide. What does that even mean? Does it mean–? Is Italy being silly or thinking about it, and what, why…

“Yes,” he says finally. “Me too.”

“Oh, _good_ ,” Italy says, and stands up and leans over to kiss him. And not the cheek-kiss greeting that he sees Italy give Greece and Spain and South Italy, and receive from them. No, a kiss on the mouth.

Germany returns it, and gets tongue in return, and only then starts to wonder why Italy is such a good kisser, and who taught him, and _can Germany sanction them_.

“If you’ve never,” he starts, once Italy has broken the kiss.

Italy smiles. “I practiced,” he says simply, and sits back down by Germany’s side. Germany wonders if he’s supposed to do something now, like put an arm around him or move closer or move _Italy_ closer or – he doesn’t even know what.

“Germany,” Italy says finally, “since we’re supposed to be allies because of the EU, does that mean it’s like we’re married?”

“Um.” No. Because that means they’re also married to France, and to Finland – which, don’t get Germany wrong, Sweden isn’t a bad sort, but he scares _everyone_ – and to South Italy, which Germany really isn’t comfortable with. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh.” Italy pauses, and tilts his head, and then says, “Well, I guess that’s okay, then.”

 

 

 

Italy proceeds to explain to him in graphic detail that while they are not allowed to have anal sex, it’s okay by his conscience to do anything else. Germany spends most of the explanation trying not to curl up in a huddle of embarrassment.

“But!” Italy finishes, “if we can figure out how to marry you can tie me up and put it in me!”

Germany closes his eyes harder and wishes his hands made better soundproofing. Except. That was a good thought. Italy handcuffed to the headboard of his bed, arms stretched out above his head. Legs spread around Germany’s hips –

Germany says, “We can be registered as life partners, if you want.”

Italy wiggles a bit. “I wouldn’t be allowed to acknowledge it at home, but I think it would be nice.”

So they’d only be able to have sex at Germany’s house. Germany is _fine_ with that. Germany is –

Germany is being stripped of his clothing on Italy’s couch.

“Since you said you would,” Italy points out, “this means we’re engaged, so it’s, well, not okay. But more okay than before, and as long as you keep your promise it’s all right.”

Germany isn’t sure how he’s supposed to respond to that; Italy fixes the problem for him by saying, “I think I’m supposed to be naked too?”

“Yes,” Germany says. His palms are warm on the bare skin of Italy’s sides.  



End file.
